


The Art of Self-Neglect

by oh_mr_adams



Category: 1776 (1972), 1776 - Edwards/Stone
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jedams, M/M, Sleep Deprivation, Whump, blood mention, disordered eating (but not like intentional he's just not very functional)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25449157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_mr_adams/pseuds/oh_mr_adams
Summary: It's done. It's done, and yet John can't figure out why he isn't feeling as great about it as he should be.
Relationships: John Adams/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	The Art of Self-Neglect

John Adams should have felt happier. He should have felt more relieved. He should have felt absolutely ecstatic. He should have, at that moment, been the happiest man in Philadelphia.    
  
He most certainly was not.   
  
He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t on top of the world right then; he’d won. The vote had passed. History had been made on that day and it was almost entirely due to his months and months of labor. Dickinson was… out of the picture, but he couldn’t bring himself to ponder that just yet. America had achieved her independence, and his inability to be overjoyed continually frustrated him. He couldn’t narrow down the reason why, though. His head was pounding, he could hardly bring himself to rise from his seat, and he’d occasionally feel a sharp, twisting pain in his stomach. His brain just wouldn’t focus long enough to figure out what was wrong with him, and so he sat at his desk, staring numbly at the far wall. Occasionally he would close his eyes in hopes of finding some reprieve from the throbbing behind his forehead, but it never came, and the rest of the day passed in a dull, rainy blur.   
  
He’d hardly noticed congress had been adjourned when he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. Some instinct within him could already tell who it was, and when he glanced at the hand, the freckled skin proved his instincts correct. He turned and stared dully up at Thomas, who simply gazed back down at him expectantly. A moment passed and John raised his eyebrows. Thomas blinked. When John opened his lips slightly and found his throat too dry to speak, he realized he hadn’t spoken since that morning. It felt like it had been a month. Possibly longer. He then realized that, after Dickinson’s departure, he couldn’t actually remember a single event from the day. He couldn’t begin to hazard a guess as to what time it was.   
  
“Are you coming?” Thomas asked softly. John swallowed the soreness from his throat.   
  
“Coming?” He repeated. The thin croak of his voice made him wince. Thomas raised an eyebrow and John could tell they were both equally confused.   
  
“Out. With us. For drinks. Like we’d all discussed,” Thomas said slowly, and despite the fogginess in his head, John couldn’t help but feel a little bit patronized. He glanced around the room only to come to the sudden realization that they were the only ones left. The candles had all been extinguished and John wondered just how long Thomas had been waiting for him. Thomas appeared to have read his mind, as he glanced around the room as well. “They all went on ahead. I figured I’d wait up for you. You seemed… lost in thought.” John gave a gentle nod, though he couldn’t remember a single cohesive thought that he’d been lost in. “So are you coming?” 

John wanted nothing less than to hang around a crowded bar with men who’d hated his guts for months, drinking murky Philadelphia beer and sitting in a cloud of tobacco smoke until the small hours of the morning. But… this was what people did. He nodded and began to rise from his seat. “Of course. If anyone should be celebrating right now, it’s me.” In the back of his mind, he knew he was convincing himself, and not Thomas, but Thomas’ gentle smile muffled the throbbing in his head for just a moment. When he got to his feet, his stomach lurched and vision went dark for a terrifying moment. He braced himself against the table for a second before quickly turning towards the door, leaving Thomas trailing behind him.

The fuzzy darkness hadn’t left his eyes until he was nearly to the door, and the pounding in his skull had resumed with an intense fervor. He gripped his cane tightly, and for, what he thought might have been the first time, used it as an actual walking stick rather than something to flail about in order to emphasize his points. Humidity clung to him as he stepped out into the sweltering night and he wasn’t sure why he’d expected it to be any cooler than indoors. Thomas closed the door behind them, and much to John’s dulled surprise, rested one hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades. John rubbed his thumb back and forth against the knuckles of one hand, as he often did when he was nervous, and yet he couldn’t determine what in God’s name his problem was.

Except for the fact that the thought of going to a tavern filled with men, most of whom found him to be obnoxious and overbearing and had never once offered him any measure of camaraderie or friendship made him perpetually more nauseous. His stomach churned uncomfortably and the stabbing pains resumed as he laid a hand on it, fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat. Thomas seemed to notice his constant fiddling and regarded him oddly. John’s back straightened and his grip on his cane lessened. For all of his uncontrollable outbursts and seemingly dense bluntness, he could always appear collected and capable when he needed to.   
  
At least that was what he’d thought. His confidence faltered as his vision began to waver and darken, and his legs began to feel like they weren’t really part of him at all. Just keeping his head up began to feel like some Herculean task, and the only things that felt at all present were the throbbing in his head and the twisting in his stomach. And then an odd and sudden, forceful relationship to gravity.   
  
He’d originally thought all of Philadelphia was unbearably hot, and yet he realized that the cobblestone streets were quite cool against his cheek. Cool enough to sleep on, he reckoned, and the thought seemed quite inviting. Everything was cool and dark and calm except - his eyebrows furrowed in frustration - the forceful shaking of his shoulder and the sound of his name being shouted at him, far too close to his ear. It was too loud, far too loud, and he just wanted to bury his head in his arms and drift off again. It was becoming impossible to ignore as both the shaking and the shouting grew more intense until he had no other choice but to turn away from the inviting darkness and open his eyes to a familiar, blurry swathe of coppery red.   
  
The thing shaking him was Thomas, and John had half a mind to tell him off for it until - oh good lord he was laying in the street. He opened his eyes further, blinking slowly, and cautiously felt for his bearings. Thomas’ hand was still tight as a vice on his shoulder and his whole face was radiating with alarm. He’d stopped shouting at least, and simply stared at John with concern and disbelief. John slowly sat up and felt around for his cane, his hands hovering over the cobblestones around him. When he couldn’t feel it, he blearily looked around and noticed it had rolled to the edge of the street. He looked at it longingly for a moment, and then looked dully back up at Thomas. A moment passed in silence.   
  
“John…” Thomas murmured, and John couldn’t help but feel guilty for whatever had made him so concerned. John was silent for a moment as he worked up the energy to speak and the presence of mind to figure out something to say. He only managed one of the two.   
  
“What… happened?” He asked slowly, his voice somewhere between blank and pitiful. Thomas’ eyebrows raised higher and John only felt more guilty. That didn’t help the stabbing pain he still felt in his stomach.   
  
“John, you fainted,” Thomas said softly, and John once again felt vaguely patronized. “One minute we were walking and then… you were on the ground.” John blinked heavily, as this was all quite difficult to process. Thomas bit his lip as his eyes wandered John’s face. “I thought I was going to have to get help, it was almost half a minute before you…” He trailed off, and John watched as Thomas’ fingers grazed his forehead. This was met with a sudden, stinging sensation and John yelped as Thomas pulled his hand back, his fingertips faintly tinged scarlet. So that’s what that feeling was. He’d assumed it was just more headache. John noticed too that one of his stockings were torn, and blood was welling up from his knee, though he couldn’t quite feel any injury. His legs still felt odd and fuzzy, like they might not have actually been there. Thomas continued to stare at him and John only grew more nervous. He glanced around the street as he slipped the top button of his waistcoat in and out of its hole, desperate for something to do with his hands.   
  
“Well, this is… embarrassing.”   
  
The concern on Thomas’ face was finally matched with frustration as he sat back on his heels, eyebrows furrowing. “How did this happen?” He asked, his voice going up an octave. John glanced away, eye contact becoming more uncomfortable by the moment. “Are you ill?”    
  
“I… don’t think so.” 

Thomas chewed the inside of his cheek and slowly cupped the side of John’s face in his hand, the tenderness returning to his expression. His thumb slowly rubbed against the spot under John’s eye, and he cocked his head to the side with dawning realization.    
  
“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”   
  
John shrugged. Had that been it? He remembered spending the previous night in the congress chamber, entirely unable to sleep. But the night before was a foggy memory and the one before that was practically ancient history. The days began to blur together and he was left feeling like an alien in his own bed. How long had it been since he’d properly slept? He stared at the blood welling from his knee.   
  
“I haven’t.”    
  
The sound of Thomas’ sigh made his chest ache as the grip on his shoulders relaxed a little. He rubbed his hands up and down John’s biceps, and John couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He was not meant to be worrying Thomas. As he stewed in his guilt, the stabbing pain in his stomach returned and he doubled over with a whimper. Thomas gasped sharply and returned his vice grip to John’s shoulder, the other hand coming to rest on his back. Anxiety welled up in John’s chest as he had no earthly idea what was wrong with him. 

The pain dulled in a moment and he relaxed very slightly. Thomas sat back on his heels again. “John…” he murmured once more, in the way that made John feel so miserably guilty.   
  
“I don’t know what’s-”   
  
“When was the last time you ate?”   
  
John’s eyes widened. Oh good god, what an idiot he was. His cheeks went hot with embarrassment. Had that seriously been it the whole time? He wished he’d smashed his skull on the cobblestones and died, rather than be there in that moment.   
  
“I…” he said quietly, “Don’t remember.” He didn’t look up but he could feel the Thomas’ tender concern give way to frustrated incredulousness.   
  
“You don’t remember.” A statement, not a question. John shook his head, and after a brief moment, Thomas gave a beleaguered groan and sat down in the street in front of him. “How do you not remember?” John had never seen Thomas look so bewildered and annoyed before, and he would have found it funny if not for anything else. He shrugged.   
  
“I… forget sometimes.”   
  
“Doesn’t it become obvious after a while?”   
  
“No. Not really. Sometimes I just don’t notice,” he mumbled, and he told himself that he would have been more forceful about it if he had any energy left whatsoever. “And in my own defense, I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately.” He slowly looked up at Thomas, who was still utterly bewildered but had begun to smile very hesitantly.   
  
“And you think I haven’t?”   
  
“I didn’t say that,” John pouted down at his lap. He’d begun fidgeting with his buttons again and the feeling in his legs slowly returned to him. Unfortunately, this was accompanied by the stinging pain from his knee, on top of everything else. Thomas regarded him for a moment before frowning.   
  
“I should have noticed.”   
  
“That’s not your job. I’m a grown man.”   
  
“You’re my friend.”   
  
John’s eyes widened at that and he glanced up at Thomas, who smiled. Thomas then leaned forward and slowly pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, pressing it against the cut on John’s forehead. He then took John’s hand in his and pressed it to the cloth, so that John was holding it in place as it slowly turned deeper and deeper shades of scarlet. Thomas then stood up and retrieved John’s cane, crouching down to place it into his hand.   
  
“Can you walk?”   
  
John nodded.   
  
“My place isn’t far. About a block.” He put one arm around John’s waist and slowly lifted him to his feet.   
  
“Your place?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“What are we doing there?” Thomas draped John’s arm around his shoulders, bending down slightly to support him as they walked.   
  
“Cleaning you up. Getting you something to eat. And you can use my bed for as long as you need.” A moment passed in silence as the two walked cautiously along the street. “Does that sound alright to you?”   
  
“It does.”   
  
  



End file.
